


Love Birds

by ForTheDamaged (CountingWithTurkeys)



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Alternate Universe - Animals, F/F, Fluff, Not Canon to the Symphony Universe, Silly, Tags Are Hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:20:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountingWithTurkeys/pseuds/ForTheDamaged
Summary: 'Love birds' is meant to be an expression. Sometimes, though, life has a sense of humor.
Relationships: Princess Bubblegum/Marceline
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	Love Birds

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely the weirdest thing I've ever written. But you know what? It was a fun experiment. I hope it's a fun read, too.

_This is an infuriating time of year. You’re trying to enjoy your day and watch the humans watching you, but, regrettably, it’s spring. On the one wing, that means there's more people to watch, and that's always fun because humans are weird and silly. On the other wing, everyone around you is an idiot because spring means eggs, and eggs mean everyone is trying to find a mate to make them with._

_You didn’t ask for this. You’re just trying to watch the humans do weird human stuff, but all around you there’s madness. When you were a chick you tried to make sense of it. After long and careful observation, you determined that everyone around you could be divided into two types of birds: singers and non-singers. Non-singers try to woo one another by building big nests and decorating them with flashy trinkets, or by showing off how beautiful they are. Some even dance or bring one another gifts. It’s ridiculous._

_The singers are worse, though, because they all think they can sing. They're wrong. It's not singing, it’s croaking and squawking and screeching. You’ve never heard a singer who’s an actual singer, and you’ve come to the conclusion over the seasons that there are no singers, just terrible imposters. In fact, singers have only one purpose in life as far as you’re concerned: they attract people. Of course, you don’t actually want to touch the people, but humans are curious creatures, and sometimes you like salvaging their stuff. What? It’s not like they were using it._

_The only good thing about spring is that it ends, then everyone shuts up. You purposefully built your nest away from everyone else, just to avoid the annoying squeak of hungry babies. You're not heartless though. There are things you do care about. You love your tree, for example. It’s a big park with lots of families of all flocks, but your tree is just far enough away to give you peace and quiet. Well, not right now, of course. But most of the singers will be gone when spring ends; unless they find a local for a mate they tend to migrate elsewhere when it gets colder, taking their incessant noise with them._

_This year’s spring is no different. Lots of humans (that’s a good thing), but your neighbors are especially insane this year. In fact, there seem to be a great deal more faux-singers than normal and it causes your feathers to bristle. From your reclusive nest you watch a small flock gather in a normally empty tree. That’s odd as well; that tree is lacking in the way of leaves or anything else to shield a small bird and its family from raptors, and the insects tend to avoid it because the bark is sick._ _As much as it's none of your business it bothers you, and you can’t leave it alone. You follow the crowd to see what’s going on._

_Up close you can see what’s causing the distasteful behavior, and were you not perched you would have stumbled mid-air. There’s a small crowd gathered around a bird you’ve never seen before and as much as you can't believe it you can say with absolute certainty that this stranger is different than the others. She’s a singer, a true one. You’ve never heard a song like her’s before. It’s almost haunting, as if it’s melancholy but trying really hard to hide that fact. Surrounded by other birds it’s easy to see you two share at least one thing in common: you don’t look anything like the other park-dwellers. She’s not much bigger than you but she is lankier, your feathers fluffy and a soft shade of red, her’s sleek and black. Odder still, she has red eyes. Is that a genetic mutation? You don’t know enough about her species to know for sure. In fact, come to think of it, you’ve never even seen her species before. Where does she come from?_

_You push those curiosities to the back of your mind and settle in to watch the display. Seemingly unaffected by the size of the crowd she commands, she sings a part of a melody and listens closely. You know what this is, because you've seen in hundreds of times before. She's listening for a complimentary melody, someone whose song can match her own, but when a brave soul sings in response she only glares at them and they quickly fly away. You’re not a singer, but you know what that means: she didn’t like their song. One by one brave souls try their talons at matching her melody, but each is rejected and leaves dejected until the only ones left in the tree are her on one branch, you observing from the one above. Even then she only stops when it becomes night, but rather than return to her own nest she only stops and roosts where she is. The gesture fills you with an uncharacteristic anxiety; the only birds that do that are the ones who don’t have nests. She’ll migrate if she doesn’t find a mate._

_For some reason you don’t like that._

_You consider it an experiment of sorts to rationalize it to yourself, but really you just want to know what kind of song she’ll fall for. For three days you nest above her, observing her exactly as you do the humans. She’s peculiar, only eating red bugs and choosing to sing under what little shade the tree offers when given the option. Despite her song’s failure to attract a worthy mate she doesn’t change it like the other singers do to fit the crowd, though you do hear her whistling other tunes when she’s off on her own. She’s very creative. You find that endearing._

_By the fourth day of this tritual the crowd is noticeably smaller. Those birds she rejected have begun to find mates of their own, and are no longer interested in having their hearts broken by the beautiful stranger. On the one wing you like the part where there are fewer rivals. On the other when did you ever start considering them rivals? After all, you’re not a singer and you have no interest in eggs. But then… neither does she, it seems. After all, she entertained songs from males and females alike. Curious._

_On the fifth day you wake up and she isn’t there. Panic grips you and you flutter around to see where she went, to see if she had migrated in the night. A hiss gets your attention, and to your relief you find her nearby on the ground, chasing some rodent from the tree. It retreats and she fluffs her feathers, clearly pleased with herself as she gives the intruder a hiss for good measure. You admire her territoriality, even if it was protecting a mostly-dead tree from a rodent. That’s another thing you share in common, you realize. But you’ve also realized that you need to meet this strange singer, before she really does give up her courtship ritual and leave. And you know exactly how you’re going to do it._

_As you thank the memory of a human musician you once observed at length you land on the ground next to her. She makes an angry sound as you venture too close, and you silently apologize for startling her. It isn’t polite, you know, but you needed her attention among the noise of the park. She observes you making strange marks into the dust, head tilted. When you stop she doesn’t move at first… only to fly away once you’re done. Your heart breaks at first, but when you hear an unfamiliar chirping noise you look up to see that she hasn’t flown away at all; she’s actually landed on the branch above so that she could see your creation._

_You only hope she likes human musicians as much as you do._

_Her head tilts the other direction and she begins to sing. This time the melody is softer, because it's not her own song. Your heart flutters with delight. She’s singing what you wrote! She understands! She sings it your creation, pauses in thought… then sings a continuation, something you didn’t write. When she stops she stares at you expectantly, and at first you aren’t sure what to do. Then you realize, or more accurately you remember, how it is singers court one another: they build on one another’s melodies until they’re one song._

_You flutter to a different section of the ground so that you have a clean canvass, and write more notes. Again she watches, this time beginning again with the first part of your song and her initial response, adding in not only this new section of your’s but her addition as well._

_You like this game._

_You’re not sure how long you continue this verbal dance. By the end of it you’re both tired, but her eyes are bright and as elated as you feel. Once she’s certain you’ve concluded she waits for you to join her on the branch, Once she's certain she has your undivided attention she sings the complete song, sharing with the world what the two of you created together._

_It’s beautiful._

_You spend the rest of the day together, exploring the park as you show her your favorite spots. In the evening you cuddle together against the cool air, preening one another and sharing the red berries that grow on your tree. From that day on she joins you in watching the humans, then creates her own games. Evidently she can mimic sounds as well, and uses this gift in a series of pranks, startling some less-than-bright people straight into the lake, others into searching blindly for their own flock by echoing their names. She can copy all sorts of noises, even other animals, and once she’s done entertaining herself she entertains you by taking requests. Soon you forget you’re supposed to be watching humans. She’s a lot more interesting._

_Every night, when it grows dark, you lead her back to your nest. It has plenty of room and you don’t like the idea of your new friend spending the night under a bare branch of the tree she claimed. Though at first she fusses and argues you're more convincing than she is stubborn, and you pull her in and cuddle against her. You’re not sure how she stays warm with feathers like that, but based on the way she melts against you you have to assume you’re warmer._

_This is your daily life for the rest of the season. You never go anywhere without your new friend, and just as you brought her into your world she brings you into her's. Evidently she likes the night more than the day, quite unusual indeed. Still, you can see the appeal; fireflies are beautiful, the park is calm with the other denizens slumbering, and she teaches you some simpler melodies. You haven't historically seen the merit in music, but even you have to admit the appeal of her music._

_Eventually, though, the Earth turns and the seasons change. The sun accompanies you less and less, and the days become as chilly as the night. Soon the day finally comes. Those singers who weren’t successful in finding a mate begin to leave for the south, to start new adventures. They bid goodbye to their makeshift flocks and form a new party, taking off just after dawn in search of a new life over the horizon._

_She doesn’t go with them._


End file.
